


Ashes

by nogoaway



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-02-10
Packaged: 2018-03-11 11:21:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3325610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nogoaway/pseuds/nogoaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Angst, cyborg limbs, and hotel blowjobs, basically. Enjoy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> This contains surgical and cyborg-y things so if that’s gross to you, might wanna skip it. Excerpted from a larger AU where North and York survive Recovery One.

North had always loved his legs, had loved tracing the corded muscle of York’s thighs and cupping the firm roundness of York’s calves in his palms. York was shorter than he was, denser, and when they did it sitting up, with York in his lap riding him, North would rest his hands on York’s quads. The feel of them working to raise and lower him, how much damn effort York put into taking his cock; York knew it drove North wild. He loved all of York’s body, but he was particularly attentive from the waist down. Even after they were done, he didn’t seem to want to stop touching York’s legs. North would drift off with his head crammed into the thin bunk pillow and his hand still kneading York’s thigh, his calf, his ass. It took York a few nights to get used to the idea that North was just touchy, he wasn’t actually going for round two. Sometimes round two happened anyway, just because.

He did it out of bed, too, but like everything with North on the MOI in those last few weeks, when they were stressed and sleep-deprived and watching everyone they cared about die or go insane, ‘out of bed’ tended to turn quickly into ‘in bed’. York lost count of the times North would sprawl him during a spar with a hand under his knee, and they’d wind up rubbing off on one another there on the mats, North groping York’s ass through his sweats. One of his favorite memories, which had kept him warm on many a cold night since, was the time North gave him a massage in the Sector 8A physical therapy room. North had gotten all the way up to his hamstrings before the pretense was abandoned in favor of fucking York into the table. 

On Sedra, after everything, North seemed dead-set on convincing York that his preferences hadn’t changed, which was unnecessary and vaguely puzzling. Whenever he brought it up (to be fair, usually in a sex-induced haze), York just snorted at him. “Don’t sweet talk me,” he’d say, looking off to the side with his good eye so North couldn’t stare him down “I know what I look like.” North used eye-contact like colony cops used tasers. He’d drop you and zap you with his fucking sincerity until it was just embarrassing for everyone involved.

These days, York’s thighs terminate just above the knee. He’d actually had most of the right leg for a while after Wyoming (as he tended to refer to the Incident, Tex and Recovery and all), but the pins in his ankle had gone septic a few days into an op and by the time he got medical attention he was feverish and gangrenous in patches from the toe to the knee. They’d informed him there was a one in three chance of saving the knee anyway, but he told them to just even him up. That way they could fit him with a standard prosthetic and he’d quit walking funny, he said. Really he was just sick of having surgeries, and he wasn’t certain he could stand one more of them. 

It was for that reason, among others (money, practicality, the risk of being recognized in hospital) that he wasn’t overly concerned with changing how his limbs looked. He knew what bio-mechanics was capable of now— Tex’s outfit was so advanced she’d fooled him for years— artificial skin, lab-grown proteins that could simulate tendons and muscle, even tear ducts and blink mechanisms. But he couldn’t stand the thought of being on the table again. There was something so horrific, so invasive, about watching another human being reach inside of his body and cut out dead flesh. It didn’t matter how much anesthetic they gave you. It was worse, really, to be numb. It felt like being dissected, a lab experiment. York had never felt so _violated_ as he did just after Wyoming, and he’d shared brain space with another rational entity at one point. 

Delta was actually another one of those reasons, not like it was surprising that the little cockbite was still managing to make York’s life complicated, years after he was gone. Too many nights spent up with nothing to do but debate Dee on the nature of humanity; it was inevitable that they’d reach the cyborg question eventually. Delta had told him about an old riddle, the paradox of Theseus: if you had an old, rotting ship, and you replaced it board by board, at what point did it become a different ship? York didn’t know the answer then, and he doesn’t know it now, but he’s pretty sure he’d rather be York with some parts missing than someone, some _thing_ else entirely. 

But he did think about it, sometimes, when North touched him. If North would prefer to feel synthetic tissues padding his metal bones, to trace the flex of re-purposed animal proteins under artificial skin instead of bare hydraulic cables when York folded his knees. He’d be lighter, with a more advanced kit. He wouldn’t hit as hard, but North could probably lift him to fuck on the wall again. He’d still wake up in the morning and think _something’s wrong_ before he remembers, because they can’t grow nerves back. (Yet. According to Tex, they’re close. She had experimentals— could feel heat, and cold, and pressure, but not pain or texture. Not gentleness. It explained a lot, really.)

York inhales one last mouthful of smoke and grinds the light out on his left palm. He can’t burn his fingers on that side, but he still stops a few centimeters short of the filter out of habit. 

North coughs, off to his right. York had thought he was asleep. Guess not.

"Don’t get ash in the sheets," North mumbles.

"Shoulda told me that earlier," York informs him. He’s got a little pile going. "What’s it matter? We’re not stayin’."

"Someone’s gotta clean it up. It’s courtesy."

York peers into the dark of their motel room, at the raggedy armchair, the dusty heating vent and stained ceiling. “I don’t think anyone’s cleaned this place out in years.”

"The sheets," North rolls over onto his back and cuts a weary look at him "are laundered. York."

York brushes his little pile of ash off the side of the bed. It leaves a wide gray smear. “Whatever.”

"You’re a pig," North tells him, without rancor. 

"Uh huh. Why aren’t you asleep?" 

North just hums and rolls closer to him, plants a kiss on York’s hip.

"Man, really?" 

North laughs, sound muffled by skin and the fabric bunched up by the headboard. “Don’t tell me you’re turning down blowjobs now.”

"Oh, is that what you’re offering?" York drags his good hand down North’s neck and back, as far as he can reach. It used to bother him, that North trusted him enough to sleep naked, it seemed sloppy, but that was before he knew North kept a loaded machine pistol under his pillow religiously. Guy could take care of himself. York doesn’t think he ever spends more than two minutes at a time without a firearm in grabbing distance. And Delta used to call _him_ paranoid. 

"Yeah." North scrapes his teeth lightly down the outside of York’s thigh, and he shivers reflexively "Let me suck you off."

York pretends to consider it. “Mmm, I don’t know. I’m pretty tired.”

He can feel North smiling against his skin. “Oh, believe me, you’ll want to stay awake for this.”

York considers and rejects three corny responses in rapid succession. What would Carolina say, if she ever found out he’d developed a filter? Probably go looking for flying pigs. 

Shit. No thinking about Carolina. That’s like, rule number one. 

"I am willing to consider a trial period," he says, finally.

"How magnanimous of you," North ducks under York’s right knee and sets his sharp chin on York’s stomach, looking very unimpressed. 

Because even thinking about thinking about Carolina makes York maudlin, he winds up combing his real fingers though North’s hair without really intending to. North doesn’t seem to mind, though, just takes York in hand and starts working him to hardness with calloused palm and wet mouth. 

It doesn’t take long. They’ve been doing this for years, North knows exactly what he likes, and for whatever reason he’s pulling out all the stops tonight, playing with York’s foreskin with his tongue and keeping a tight, wet grip on the base. York lets his head fall back and knock against the wall, and tries not to pant too loudly. He drags his hand down out of North’s hair, knowing he’ll start pulling on it if he doesn’t, but North waves blindly around for a second before finding York’s wrist and pulling his arm back to where it was. York gives a mental shrug, and tugs lightly on a fistful near the back of North’s head, just so North knows what he’s getting himself into. North doesn’t protest. 

Both of his hands clench reflexively when North deep-throats him, the left one creaking a little with the suddenness of it, the scrape of wire tendons on polymer carpals. This is not something North attempts often; it’s more difficult for him than it is for York, and it’s not something York’s ever insisted on, but it does feel damn good, and half the pleasure of it is watching North make the effort. He manages two swallows before he has to pull off, and York savors the feeling of his throat working, the tight, organic clench of it. North’s breathing is ragged, but he’s not coughing or gagging. When York looks down to check on him, there’s a shining slick of saliva and precum all down his chin. 

"Fuck, that’s hot," he mutters, mostly to himself. North gives him a pleased look anyway, and wraps his whole hand around his cock, redirecting his mouth to York’s inner thigh. He drags his teeth down the length of the sartorius muscle, and York twitches. When North presses the flat of his tongue hard into the soft crease where York’s leg meets his groin, York can feel his own femoral artery pulsing heavily. North sets his teeth in there, tugs lightly, and then presses open-mouthed kisses down to the plate, where York’s sensitivity is weaker and he can only register a vague feeling of warmth and wetness. 

"Don’t," York mumbles, but makes no effort to pull North away, or move his leg. 

North kisses the steel patellar guard, runs the tip of his tongue along the top of the plate where skin and prosthetic meet. “I love this part of you.”

"I thought I was getting a blowjob," York complains, and North gives him a few conciliatory jerks with his hand "not appeasing your weird amputee fetish." Amputee. The word sticks in his mouth and he regrets it immediately. He wants to delete it from his vocabulary altogether. It sounds so helpless. 

"You know that’s not—" North sighs, and gives up, leaning back in to tease the head of York’s cock with plush, wet lips. He keeps his hand under York’s thigh, though, coaxing his right leg over North’s shoulder and digging blunt fingers into York’s hamstring. York drags his gaze away from harsh knotted cables pressing the pale skin of North’s back to agitated pink, and watches his mouth instead. 

North laps a bead of precum off him and another wells up. “Fuck my throat, okay?” He sets a broad hand over York’s on the back of his own head, pressing York’s fingers until they curl into his hair again.

"Uh," York says, and swallows "Um. What’s gotten into you tonight, anyway?"

North quirks a brow, the pedantic asshole, and sucks at him pointedly. 

York rolls his good eye. “Not funny.”

North just hums, pulling York further into his mouth and sucking hard, tonguing the head of York’s cock into the slick cushion of his cheek. York twitches and shudders, his knee tightening reflexively on North’s back, reeling him in. Talking seems like an awful lot of effort, now that he thinks about it. Much better to just let his hips rock him deeper into North’s throat, to let his head fall back and his eye close and think about absolutely nothing. North’s breathing is deep and perfectly rhythmic, huffing out his nose against York’s abs, and York knows he’s trying hard not to choke. He keeps pushing York’s hand into his hair, urging him to tug and press, to move North’s head the way he wants.

It’s so unlike North, weirdly submissive, and York gives in without realizing it, can’t help himself as his hips stutter and his legs jerk. He holds North’s head still by the hair and just pumps into him, once, twice, feels him gag, and then he’s coming. 

York tries to pull out, but wide hands grab his hips and press him into the mattress. North follows him down, letting York slip out of his convulsing throat into the softness of his mouth, and York pulses cum helplessly over his tongue as North swallows, over and over. 

Hands guide his right leg down back onto the bed, and a palm smooths over the twitching quad muscle. North’s still sucking at him, gently, and York has to pull him off. He’s much too sensitive, and he can’t stop shaking. North stretches out and cushions his cheek on York’s left thigh, smiles slightly when York gazes blearily down the length of his own body.

"Do you want—" he slurs, but North’s already shaking his head.

"No. Go to sleep."

"Are you—"

” _Yes_. Sleep.” North turns his face into York’s skin, kisses him. York lets the pressure, the weight of it, keep him tethered as he drifts off, smelling sex and ash.


End file.
